


Sticking to Naugahyde Seats

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://no-tags.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://no-tags.livejournal.com/"><b>no_tags</b></a> challenge Bonus Round for prompt 62:  Patrick/Pete, van days</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticking to Naugahyde Seats

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for the general encouragement and awesomeness.

  
Patrick has no idea what state they’re in, much less what city they’re going to. Andy’s driving, and he can hear the low whine of heavy metal guitars from where he’s sitting in the back of the van, a large wet stain spreading on the thigh of his jeans where Pete’s sleeping and drooling. It’s cold outside and the van is old and has a shitty heating system, so Pete’s saliva is like a glacier growing across Patrick’s lap. He shoves Pete slightly, but Pete just grumbles and wraps his arms around Patrick’s leg at the knee, snuggling closer.

“It’s like having a pet monkey.”

Joe snorts from the seat in front of them. “It’s like having a Pete monkey.”

“Be careful or I’m going to send him to live up there with you.” Patrick twists his fingers in Pete’s hair, blunt nails scraping lightly at Pete’s scalp. Pete sighs and murmurs something, tugging his legs up closer to his chest and moving closer still, his body curling in on itself so his back is against Patrick’s side. “I swear, I think he’s made out of Play-doh or something.”

“Play-doh smells better.”

“Raw sewage smells better.”

Pete’s voice is gravelly from screaming at the show and from sleep. “Fuck you both.” He sits up, but somehow manages to stay pressed just as tight against Patrick. The smell isn’t true – Pete smells like sweat and heat and the waxy hint of make-up, but he doesn’t smell bad. Of course, they stopped at Joe’s cousin’s house before the show and showered, so it’s not like it will be in six days when it’s the unwashed masses in the reeking van. Then raw sewage _will_ smell better.

“You know there’s a whole other side to this seat, right, Wentz?”

Pete snorts and nuzzles into Patrick’s neck, moving over to sit on Patrick’s lap facing him. Patrick shivers a little as Pete’s body settles against his, warmth caught between them. “You’re the one who called me a monkey.”

“Even monkeys know how to sit.” He doesn’t push Pete away and he manages to get the ratty blanket around Pete’s shoulders to cover most of him as well. Pete pulls it over their heads, catching the edge of it on Patrick’s hat and knocking it into the well behind their seat. “You fucker.”

“Shut up. You’ll survive.” They sit there quietly for a long time, the humidity of their breath pooling between them. Andy’s music changes to free-form jazz and Joe’s obviously asleep, sighing softly and mumbling under his breath about zebras. He can only see Pete’s outline, can’t see his expression or anything else, but he can feel the waiting. It makes it impossible to drop off to sleep, a different kind of tension knotting up between Patrick’s shoulder blades.

He loses track of time until Pete brings him back into the moment, his fingers freeing the button of Patrick’s jeans. “What are you doing?” He whispers, even though they both know it’s a ridiculously stupid question. “Pete…”

“Shh.” It’s funny when Pete whispers, because he barely makes a sound, which is so different than the way he usually talks, boisterous and exuberant. “Joe’s asleep. Andy’s driving.”

“Right,” Patrick hisses. “Which is why you need to…” He cuts off as Pete unzips Patrick’s jeans, going slow, tooth by tooth so he doesn’t make a sound. Patrick’s jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth together to keep from making any noise at all, holding the threatening groan back.

“Can’t wake Joe up. Can’t make a sound.” He shifts back just a bit and Patrick slides forward, just enough that Pete can work his hand inside Patrick’s boxers. Pete’s fist is loose at first, the barest touch of his callused fingers against the side of the shaft, the well between his thumb and forefinger smooth, made for the curve of the neck of a bass, for the curve of Patrick’s cock.

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Patrick breaths against Pete’s mouth, the words caught in tiny gasps as Pete’s hand moves slowly. “Yo-you’re evil.”

“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it, because they both know it’s true. Pete’s got a mischievous streak about as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon.

“Arizona.”

Pete stops the movement of his hand and Patrick can feel his stare. “What?”

“Um…Arizona?”

Pete tugs the blanket from over them and looks at Patrick. In the moonlight, he can see the brightness of the whites of Pete’s eyes. “Okay, first, you’re supposed to be _quiet_ , because they don’t know what we’re doing.”

Andy and Joe reply in disturbingly fast unison. “Yes, we do.”

“Shut up. And secondly, _Ari-fucking-zona_?”

“That’s…um…that’s where we are?”

“Nope,” Andy offers. “Now we’re in Utah, which means you guys should really cut that shit out before the Mormons come after you. Also because if you don’t, Joe and I are making you walk the rest of the way.”

Pete scowls at Patrick. “You totally ruined this, you know. Ruiner.”

“Hey, I’m the one who was actually…” He stops mid-sentence, feeling the blush all the way to the tips of his ears. “Never mind.”

Pete moves off Patrick and slumps on his side of the seat, glaring at all three of them at once. “I hate you all. Fucking _Arizona_.”

“Utah, dude.”

Pete flips Andy off and reaches over to steal the blanket from where it fell at Patrick’s feet when Pete moved. “My blanket.”

“What are you? Two?” Joe’s voice drifts over the back of the seat, half of it lost in a grumble and the sound of him turning over on the naughahyde.

“Fucking Utah.” Patrick glances at Pete and then stretches out across the seat, laying his head in Pete’s lap. Pete huffs out a laugh but his hand slides along Patrick’s arm, stroking slowly. “You know I’m never ever going to forget this, right?”

“Yes, Pete.” Patrick sighs softy, raising a hand to trace the hem of Pete’s t-shirt. “Your memory, like your dick, is long.”

“That’s right.”

“Ew,” Joe groaned just as Andy tossed a Styrofoam cup back, smacking Pete in the forehead.

“All this talk about Pete’s dick better be fucking rhetorical, Stump,” Andy warns them as another cup smacks Pete. “Or I swear, we’re leaving both your asses at the next rest stop.”  



End file.
